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Or was the motive, as it often was with Gilbert, far more complex, more selfish? Was it to protect himself ? To stop Abigail Robinson from revealing his one great secret. His great shame.

“Of course,” said Beauvoir, “it’s possible he didn’t stop Tardif from shooting because they were working together.”

“I have news on that,” Isabelle said to Jean-Guy. “While you were in Montréal, we found the accomplice. Not Gilbert, not the brother. The son.”

She brought Jean-Guy quickly up to speed about Simon Tardif.

Beauvoir immediately understood the important detail. “He also worked the party. Kids were going in and out of those woods all night long. One more wouldn’t be noticed. Simon Tardif could’ve tried to finish the job his father started.”

“The thing is, I’m not convinced,” said Lacoste. “I don’t think he’d have the nerve.”

“Neither do I,” said Gamache. “But I’ve been surprised before.”

Chapter 33

Within moments of taking the lid off the final box, Reine-Marie knew that this contained the motherlode. The earliest items from Enid Horton’s life.

No more report cards, Mother’s Day cards, Christmas cards from her children.

These cards were from, and about, Enid herself.

The world receded around Reine-Marie as the librarian and archivist stepped from her life into Enid’s.

There were cracked and faded photos of her as a child, running in an immense snowsuit and dragging a long, frozen wool scarf behind her, outside an old Québécois chalet in the Laurentian Mountains.

Photos of her sitting between two siblings. An older sister and younger brother.

A little white Bible was dedicated to Enid Blythe, on the day of her christening. Given to her by a godmother.

And there were letters. Lots of them.

Taking out a pile and smoothing them on her lap, Reine-Marie picked up the top one and wondered, not for the first time, what the next generation of archivists and biographers would do. No one wrote letters anymore. No one had printed photographs and albums for historians, or even family members, to pore over. Everything was in a cloud and needed a password.

But that wasn’t her concern, not today at least.

At first Reine-Marie read every word of the letters, but then she started to skim.

Here was Enid, growing up with all the natural questions and insecurities of a girl. Of a young woman. Of a young bride. Of a young mother.

But . . . then . . .

Reine-Marie turned the page and looked at the next letter.

Her eyes first went to where it was from. Then who it was from.

And then they stopped. At the doodle in the margin.

She almost shoved the paper off her lap, as though some snake had landed there.

But it wasn’t a snake. It was a monkey.

Ruth stood in the middle of the studio staring at the canvas on the easel.

Without turning around she said, “What is it? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. Is it a bunny?” Before Clara could answer, Ruth had cocked her head and raised her hand for silence. “No, I’ve got it. It’s a car. It’s a bunny in a car.”

She turned astonished eyes on Clara, who was standing, arms crossed, at the door to her studio.

“You’re exhibiting signs of creativity,” said Ruth. “It’s still shit, of course, but at least it’s unexpected merde.”